


Bronze Letters

by verymerrysioux



Series: Postman!Warriors [3]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Not Really Character Death, Postman!Warriors, mailman!Link, postman!Link
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verymerrysioux/pseuds/verymerrysioux
Summary: "This has to be an exception! Everyone thought you were dead!"A glimpse on how the postmen reacted to Link's death, and what they did to cope.Based on the Linked Universe AU.
Series: Postman!Warriors [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807576
Comments: 9
Kudos: 121





	Bronze Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Me: You've heard of "Crack Taken Seriously" now get ready for "Crack Taken Sadly"
> 
> All the OCs belong to [EstaJay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EstaJay/pseuds/EstaJay), I just took them and made them cry.
> 
> No beta, I commit a Really Character Death unlike Warriors.

There are a lot of Links in Hyrule, even more than the number of Zeldas. Parents like naming their children based on famous people. Maybe they hope it would inspire them to live up to their namesake, maybe they're just fans, maybe they’re not creative enough for any other name. 

Suffice to say, the amount of Links that are born in Hyrule is staggering.

For instance, it's not enough to say "Link, you know, the farmer?" as there are many farmers whose name is Link. There is even one hero in history who was a Link the farmer. Some will argue that tacking on "of Ordon" or calling him the rancher instead of the farmer will help. But there are many Links in Ordon who are also ranchers, so the argument is moot.

If a profession exists, there will be Links by the dozen who take it. Some take a mundane route and become a baker, or a librarian, or a teacher. Some travel the world, sating the wanderlust they feel. Many enlist in the army, following their namesake as a warrior of justice, encouraged by family and friends alike for choosing a noble pursuit. 

Except one.

There are many Link the Farmers, Link the Bakers, and Link the Soldiers. But there is only one Link the Postman.

'It's a good thing,' Elias thinks, looking at the bronze plaque, taking note how much it would cost to carve a new name into it and counting the rupees in his wallet. 'Less letters to spend on his last name or epithets.'

He ignores the harsh whisper that tells him fallen soldiers get their whole names, titles, and ranks all in their own plaque of silver (gold if they're nobility). Stewing on those thoughts did him no good. He has more important things to do, like the message he has to deliver to the boys.

It never gets easier, but as a postman he can at least do this right.

* * *

Weeks pass and nobody leaves.

This is something Elias doesn’t expect. He predicted letters of resignation, all stacked up on his desk as he walked by empty chairs and tables. He predicted the boys using all the minuscule amount of paid leave they had, buying time as they searched for better (safer) jobs. He predicted none of them showing up at all.

He wouldn’t have blamed them. Link hadn’t just been their best postman, he’d been their best fighter. Killing bandits and monsters on a normal day, all for the sake of delivering his letters. Rarely was he assigned war duty, but when he did, he did it exceedingly well.

Then he never reported back a week after he left. Missing in action is just as good as killed in their profession, and he’d laugh at the goddesses themselves if anyone suggested he deserted.

If Link died, before the next war had even started, then what were the chances of them surviving? 

In a war that people are now calling the war of all ages, where monsters of all kinds laid waste to their homeland, where portals appear at random, where the soldiers die like ants against a boot. What chance did an average postman have?

None.

Elias decided to stay long before Link came here, so he was prepared to have their tiny force dwindle even more. He wouldn’t even stop them. This job demanded so much and punished you even more. They deserved better.

He’s an old man, too late to change his short life. What’s an arrow to the neck with his old bones? What's falling from exhaustion and burnout when he’s only got a few years left? Better than the young ones (better than another Link, another Nalph, another Relson—the list goes on).

But nobody leaves.

There’s no Link to greet them, to smile at them and exclaim how wonderful they’re all doing. There’s no laughter as each of them update themselves on the hilarious attempts the customers make to get in Link’s shorts (and considering the length of those things, or lack thereof, it’s amazing there’s not a single success). There’s no shaking of heads and sighs of fond exasperation as they witness Link wail at being a minute late in delivering a letter.

Instead, Marc looks up whenever the door opens, the fire of hope in his eyes dimming every time he doesn’t see that shock of familiar blond hair. Cor often looks to his side as if to chat with someone, then stiffens abruptly and becomes quiet. Dungo takes so many missions that Elias has to make it a rule to have a _maximum_ quota of deliveries for his health’s sake.

The worst, perhaps, are the postmen who find out days later. The ones that had taken long international deliveries, or had been at home recovering, and expected the concentrated ball of energy and cheerfulness that is their junior postman to greet them.

Jol denies it furiously, Ezra curses the army, Zomo is quiet (looking at his bandaged leg in anger and guilt). If there had been more of them, Elias has no doubt they’d scream denial, hate, and grief the same way. 

Perhaps Link’s spirit was just that special, perhaps this was the last straw, perhaps it’s both.

Nobody leaves.

If Elias sees a few of them teach themselves how to fight, he doesn’t discourage it. If he sees a few of the posters of the war front gone, he doesn’t say anything about it. If there are complaints from customers at the rude behavior of the postmen (“They asked where Link is and I told them he’s dead.”), then as long as the letters are delivered, he won’t care.

They stay. To remember Link, to not disappoint him, to plant flowers on the yard and polish the bronze plaque hanging on the door.

What keeps them going isn’t motivation. It’s nothing like the hearth that burned in their hearts, fed with the want of doing better, of the knowledge that there was someone who looked up to them, of the will to keep going because they knew that coming back to the office would be worth it.

It’s spite boiling in their blood as they power through the mocking voices of everyone. It’s refusing to destroy the image Link had seen and believed in. It’s the angry litany of no, no, no when they hear whispers of new laws. That their profession will be dragged even lower as punishment for criminals.

It's the empty cold that numbs their bones, so they run in an attempt to warm themselves, to feel something. They’re postmen, if it’s one thing they’re good at, it’s running.

* * *

Elias does Link's paperwork because there's nobody else.

As he fills out the necessary forms to record Link's death, the rest pack Link's things in boxes so it won't gather dust. It's gentle and meticulous. They’re postmen, to preserve items is just as important as sending them. In this, they can do right. Link deserves it.

(Link deserved more, but it's too late for that.)

* * *

It's the hero that starts the idea of messenger quests. 

Where many of the tacticians focus on capturing keeps and sabotaging bases, the hero suggests the protection of information is just as important. That a single message sent on time could change the tide of a battle drastically.

One battle where two postmen, both protected on orders from the hero, dashed away and brought reinforcements proves that point. The news paints a beautiful picture of the noble hero wanting to protect even the most common of the folk. That every role, no matter how small, is important to the war.

The postmen, when they return, tell a different story. The hero is a young man (young like their Link, is what everyone thinks and nobody says), and despite his battle prowess, many of the soldiers aren’t willing to listen to an upstart in their eyes. Especially when the orders are to protect postmen of all things.

There are arguments. The hero's logic shot down the moment he said the words “protect” and “postman” in the same sentence. He has not gained the respect of the soldiers. He will in time, but not in this moment.

The ones who listen to him are not from the army. An imp with strange magic, a girl with a parasol, a woman with blue hair, and a little boy in green are all the people who side with the hero. 

The imp and the girl would rather follow him than the soldiers (in their Hyrule, the soldiers are worse than weak, they're _cowards_ ). The woman with blue hair has seen further in his life and knows to trust him. And the little boy sees the soldiers with armor and weapons, while the postmen have none, and think there's no question on who needs more protection.

It's a strange concept for the army to grasp, but a familiar theory the postmen have muttered time and time again as they limp back to the office. 

(The Crown demands messengers but are surprised to have so little of them. Treat their postmen better and maybe they wouldn't die as much. Treat their postmen better and maybe more people would be willing to take the job.)

Elias is grateful, for every man he sends to war duty always makes him feel he's sending a death sentence. The noose isn't as tight with the protection from the army. 

He wishes Link had that chance.

* * *

Deliveries become odd when the war of ages begins.

When the portals appear, it’s not only monsters that come out. People arrive too, confused and scared. Items are spat out as well (and Castle Town’s ever growing Bazaar flourishes even more as curious buyers purchase them, be it for their historical value or uniqueness). 

Somehow, mail from other eras arrive in their offices too. 

“What’re we going to do with these?” Jol asks, gesturing at the pile of mail helplessly. “This goes beyond international delivery at this point!”

Elias hums, holding one of the letters. The writing looks similar to the ancient script he often saw carved in on the pillars of Hylia’s temples. “Sort them by similar characters and symbols,” he orders. “I’ll find someone that can translate these.” 

He’ll have to find someone who was willing to teach them as well, it would save time if they read the envelopes themselves.

Jol gapes. “Boss, you can’t be serious!” He sputters. “Even if we knew where to send them, how would we do it?!”

“Same way the soldiers do.”

“That’s insane! This isn’t our responsibility anymore!” Jol shakes his head. “Why not give them to the army? They’re the ones who’re experts in this portal business!”

Elias snorts. “You think those soldiers care about things unrelated to the war?”

“You sound like Zomo.”

“He’s stayed in war duty the longest,” after Link’s death. “If he says things about the army, then it’s true.” 

“Still…”

“You’ve seen how they’re treating the people,” Elias points out. The army’s solution, and in effect the Crown’s solution (as the princess leads the army), with the displaced is to point them at a shelter and give them their best wishes. 

Never mind that most can’t read this era’s Hyrulean script, never mind that they can barely _speak it_ , these are just the few things needed to survive in this era. In this war-torn and battle-weary era. The Loruleans are a goddess-send in this regard, willing to take in the displaced both out of sympathy and as a way to pay their debt to Hyrule.

“We give them the letters, they’ll eventually order us to do it, if they don’t decide to use it as kindle for their campfires,” he sighs. “Besides, he would have done it.”

Jol sucks in a breath. “That’s low, old man.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

He would have done it.

* * *

“A few things have changed since you left,” Ezra comments, watering the flowers in the yard. With the sporadic deliveries and even more unpredictable demands of the Crown, it was hard to schedule the maintenance of their humble memorial. So anyone who had free time was encouraged to take initiative. 

“Many of us don’t mind being postmen now, though we still complain a lot.”

He puts the watering can to the side and kneels down, reading each of the names on the plaque. 

“Well, there’s a lot to complain about. Even you did it,” he huffs. “If given a chance, we’d still change our jobs. Probably not a soldier.” Not anymore. Any postman who’s done a lick of war duty will be averse to the thought. “But would be nice to have a, I dunno, bakery? An inn? Something calm and stationary.”

He takes a clean strip of cloth from his bag and polishes the plaque.

“It’s quiet without you around,” he murmurs. “But we’re doing alright.”

Not great, but alright.

* * *

"The Crown's elite are kind of weird," Zomo comments after returning from his war post. It's one of the rare days that many of them are in the office, and during that time most of them use it to share information (gossip).

Newbie, as everyone in the office likes to call him, blinks and asks, "Crown's elite?"

"The strongest warriors in Hyrule's army besides the princess, the general, and the hero," Marc explains, standing up and stretching. He'd been on desk duty for far too long that making a delivery was a relief. "Can't miss them. They never wear the soldier's standard uniforms and if they aren't from other eras, I'll eat my hat."

"Our best soldiers aren't from here?" Newbie says in disbelief.

"Most definitely," Zomo says cheerfully. "As someone who's seen the battlefield lots of times, our own soldiers _suck_."

Newbie looks horrified, still drunk on the war propaganda ginger ale to believe the soldiers are flawed.

"I've seen an actual child fight better than them," Zomo insists, always happy to have an opportunity to break the rose-tinted glasses people wore. He has new scars since (Link's death) he made a full recovery, and not all of them are from monsters. "I've seen the same actual child lead troops as well."

"You're lying!" Newbie sputters.

"Who's lying?" Cor asks, entering the lobby, he's carrying a large crate on one arm.

"Newbie doesn't believe that there's a tiny murder child in the Crown's elite," Marc yawns. “Is that Lon Lon milk?”

“Yep, pre-Twilight era. The good stuff.” Cor puts down the crate and grabs a chair. “Thanks from the lady of the ranch herself.”

“Ah, Mrs. Lon,” Marc sighs. It’s rare for them to get deliveries from that ranch, as the woman prefers to deliver the ranch’s goods herself. But she’s started hiring couriers for orders beyond Castle Town. She’s one of the postmen’s favorite customers, the rare few who treat them well, borderline doting. “A woman after my own heart.”

“She’s married,” Cor says dryly, putting out the bottles of milk one by one. “If she won’t kick your ass if you look at her funny, then her husband will.” He hasn’t seen Mr. Lon, but given the stories he’s heard from Mrs. Lon and her father, a knight _and_ adventurer, even a retired one, would be no slouch.

“I’d let her.” Marc smiles dreamily. “I’d even let the husband do it too, there’s no way a goddess like her wouldn’t marry someone just as beautiful.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Zomo tells him in disgust. “How your shorts haven’t ripped from your perpetual boner is beyond me.”

"So the tiny murder child that our resident flirt mentioned,” Cor starts. “Wears green and carries a big sword? Cute as a button and knows it?"

"That’s the one," Zomo affirms. He turns to Newbie. "He's ridiculously protective of postmen, so some advice: if the insults from the army are too much, try to deliver when he's within earshot."

"He'll immediately attack their shins like the wrath of Din is upon them!" Marc cackles, remembering the first time he witnessed it. That sight was pumpkin soup for his tired soul. "Link would have loved him."

There's silence. 

Newbie fidgets. He's seen the plaque and flowers outside, he doesn't need to ask what they're for. It's not hard to figure out which Link they're referring to considering the last name listed on it.

It's been months since he's been hired and nobody really talked about Link beyond being the best postman they had.

"... What rating would he have given the kid?" Cor asks. "He always did that, didn't he? Give ratings based on postman potential." He gives Marc a stink eye. "No thanks to you."

"I didn't know he was dense as a rock that time!"

"B," Zomo says immediately. "He'd be an A, but unlike the army, we don't do child labor.” Looking back, there’d been a girl too. She looked twelve at best and was dressed like she was going to a tea party. Din, and people thought their recruitment standards were low. “So he'd have to wait and grow older to work."

Marc raises an eyebrow. "That's pretty high." He whistles. "And considering Link's standards, that's impressive."

"You haven't seen that kid in battle," Zomo snorts. "He's fast for a tiny thing and I've heard him mumble calculations on how long it would take him to get from one keep to another. Down to the _millisecond."_

Marc blinks. "That's-I don't think even Link reached that point of accuracy." He narrows his eyes. "Was the kid right, though?"

Zomo grins. "It was one of those messenger quests," he explains. "Kid told me it would take six minutes, ten seconds, and thirteen milliseconds to get to the post."

"... So was the kid right?"

"He was ten seconds late because a poe was summoned in front of him and nearly blasted his face.” He shakes his head, exasperated. “He was put out by it."

Cor pauses from bringing out the bottles of milk from the crate to look at Zomo. “He almost died and was _put out_ by missing his mark?”

“Sulked all the way and apologized for the delay too.”

“... You’re right, Link would have loved him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, nay, or meh?


End file.
